Disclaimer: Anything recognizable belongs to Janet Evanovich, and the rest is mine. I'm grateful she lets us play.

Warning: Dark fic. Adult language, adult content, violence, smut. This is written for mature audiences only.

A/N: In a dark story, this is the second darkest chapter. If you have any specific trigger concerns or would enjoy the story better with a summary, please private message me.

Chapter 3

Stephanie's POV

Five Months Later

I wait in my car for Connie to finish opening the Bonds Office at 6:55 am before striding inside. I pick up Rangeman's stack of FTA's and add a couple to my pile before turning and walking out again. "Nice to see you as always, Stephanie," Connie calls behind me.

I had a lot of time to think while waiting for my wrist to heal. I couldn't go after any skips that were potentially non-compliant, and I used the spare time to lay low. For the first couple of weeks after I killed Farro, I got hundreds of voice and text messages with commentary about my break-up with Morelli. The Burg kept me up to date on the women he was seeing; along with Farro's funeral and wake. Then, all anyone wanted to know was if I was going to quit my job; and any other random gossip people shot over to see if it would get a reaction out of me. No one, except Mary Lou, called to ask how I was doing.

Consequently, Mary Lou is the only person I called back. I told her I was fine, but the more I listened to her kind and cheerful voice with the squeals of her kids in the background, the more detached I became. Mary Lou is good, and good things fill her life. I love her too much to corrupt that. I ended the call quickly, and I haven't reached out again.

My mother called incessantly, asking me when I was going to get back together with Morelli, if I quit my job, where did I move to, when am I coming to dinner, and on and on. I gave into a desire to find something normal in my upturned life and went to dinner a week after Farro. Morelli was sitting at the dining room table, and I turned around and left. My mom caught up to me at the car.

"Where do you think you're going, Stephanie?" she exclaimed.

I gave her an uncompromising stare. "I broke up with Morelli. End of story. You either respect that, or you don't. Right now, you don't. When you decide to honor my decision to be single, I might consider coming back to this house. Never ambush me with a man again," I stated severely and drove away.

My mom called two months later and, while she didn't apologize, she did promise not to invite anyone to dinner if I would come over. I told her I would, but if I discovered she was lying to me, I wouldn't return. I arrived precisely at five pm and walked around the house to enter through the backdoor. I slipped into the kitchen to avoid being ambushed by Saint Valerie and my Grandmother and to scout for any surprise guests. Finding none, I leaned against the wall nearest the kitchen door and waited with my arms crossed as my mother bustled into the room to pick up the bread basket.

She turned and jumped, the bread flying into the air. "Holy cow, Stephanie! You scared me!" she screeched, placing her hand over heart. She picked the bread up off of the ground and looked me over once. "What are you wearing?" she asked, attempting to hide her disdain.

"Clothes," I replied, my face nor tone showing any emotion.

My mother rolled her eyes. "Obviously, but you look like a thug or a gangbanger," she exclaimed, waving her arm in my general direction.

I wore a black leather jacket, black t-shirt, tight-fitting bootcut jeans, and steel-toed boots. The jacket is long enough to cover the gun in the small of my back, and the jeans flare enough to cover the piece strapped to my ankle. My knife fits comfortably in the back pocket of my jeans. My hair is short. I cut it for practical reasons while my hand was in a cast and decided it suited me. "I came from work. These clothes help me do my job better," I replied, my tone indicating the end of the conversation. My mom sniffed disapprovingly but held her tongue. I picked up the bread basket, carried it to the table, and took a seat where I could see the front door with easy access to the backdoor.

The family slowly found their usual seats for dinner, and my father led us in grace before serving himself a generous portion of pot roast. I took a much smaller serving. Not only do I eat a lot less than I used to, the faster I eat, the faster I can leave.

"Stephanie," my Grandmother said from the seat across from me. "I like your new look, especially the jacket. Very goth-chic. Is that a nose earring? It's nice. Do you think I'd look good with a nose ring? I could get one of those with a diamond. Diamonds are classy," she crooned. My mother did the sign of the cross, walked into the kitchen, and returned with a glass of whiskey over ice.

"How have you been, Stephanie? I haven't heard much about you lately," Valerie simpered, but I knew she's looking for gossip to pass on. "I heard Mor, er," she began, cutting off her words abruptly when my mother and I shot daggers in her direction.

"Have you heard from Ranger?" my mom tried again, and I looked at her impassively. "He's been gone a long time, and I know he's important to you." It couldn't tell if my Mom was fishing or genuinely cared.

"No," I stated and finished my meal quickly. The conversation continued around me, and I cleared my plate and slipped out the backdoor before dessert. I've gone weekly since. My mom must have decided it is better that I come over a little than not at all, and she has never questioned my quiet departures and has even taken to leaving a take-home bag of leftovers on the counter next to the backdoor. It's the only interactions with people from my life pre-Farro that I've retained.

I'm about to open the door to my CR-V when Lester jogs up and places his hand over the top edge. I stare at him with hostile annoyance. "Hey, Beautiful. How's it going?" he says, leaning against my car.

"Move," I demand.

"I'm here to pick up Rangeman's files," he presses, ignoring my request. "What cases do you have today?" he continues, reaching for my messenger bag.

"Last warning, Lester," I growl, moving my hand to my stun gun and out of patience for his invasive antics.

"Okay, Beautiful," Lester sigh, raising his hands and taking a step back. He's about to say more, but I quickly get into my car, lock the doors, and drive away. I don't trust Lester, and when I'm a mile away, I pull over and inspect my vehicle, person and messenger bag for trackers or bugs. I find one inside the wheel well, and I'm so angry I see red.

I storm inside the convenience station, quickly find what I need, and drive to Haywood. I place the vehicle in park at the curb in front of the building but keep the engine running. I take a small metal trash can out and put it in the center of the lawn and return with a bag of sand and dramatically pour it into the bottom. I do all of this while staring at the cameras, and it isn't long before I begin to attract attention. I slam the trunk closed and yank open the passenger door. I grab a cheap bottle of vodka and march back to the trash can. Tank is standing in front of the entrance with his arms crossed over his chest regarding me carefully.

I open the bottle and take a long pull of the clear liquid, enjoying the satisfying burn. Then I quickly grab the tracker out of my pocket, drop it in the bottle, and stuff a handkerchief into the neck.

"Do not track me!" I yell before lighting the handkerchief and throwing the Molotov cocktail into the trashcan. I sprint back to my car as the explosion singes the ends of my hair and peel away. I drive several miles before pull into a parking garage to review my files for the day.

There are four FTAs, two of my regulars and two I swiped from Rangeman. The first is one of Mooner's buddies, Trip Young. I call Mooner and ask him to arrange a get-together. The second is for Edith Hayes. She got busted for indecent exposure at the Policeman's Ball when she showed her tits "for America." Her day job is a teller at the bank, and I'll swing by when her shift ends. I turn my attention to the Rangeman files.

The first is for Oscar Sanchez. He's a well-known local drug dealer who pimps a few of the girls on Stark Street. This arrest was for bar brawling, but the bond is high due to his criminal record. I review his address of record as well as locations of previous arrests. Sanchez runs a pretty consistent beat within a two-block area, and I decide to check out a bar nearest his address this evening to see if I can find him.

The last file is for Jimmy Butler. He's a registered sex offender who got caught jerking off in front of a school. My lips curl in revulsion at his mugshot. He's balding with stringy white hair falling unevenly around his shoulders, a two-day stubble, and red, glassy eyes. He's wearing a stained t-shirt with a watermelon saying 'Trust me, you can eat my seed.'

I start the car and drive to Butler's listed address. It's a ten-minute drive, and I park across the street and kitty-corner from the house to passively conduct surveillance of the property. It's a two-story duplex with on-street parking. The plain brick front meets the sidewalk. There's a small alley on either side of the duplex that's paved over. It's too narrow for a car to fit through the alley. I step out of the CR-V, lock it behind me, and take a stroll around the house. There's a high fence that runs along the back with no visible opening. It's possible that Butler could try to escape from the rear, but he can't go far on either side, and I doubt he's fit enough to climb over the fence. I pull a motion-activated sensor with a loud alarm out of my pocket, place it on the floor near the corner of the door, and activate it. I jog back to the front and knock on the door.

There's slight movement at the window, and the blinds shake. I see a retreating figure through the broken slots. I step down the stairs and position myself between the front door and the alley as the alarm sounds. I run to the back with my gun in hand. "Bond enforcement. Freeze!" I yell commandingly to Butler's retreating figure. He swings his arm wide and fires a pot shot at me that goes wide. I immediately return fire with my 9mm and hit him in the right shoulder and pelvis. He screams and falls, dropping his gun.

"You bitch," he spits out venomously between groans of pain.

I kick his weapon away before rolling him over and securing his hands with cuffs. I take a step back and call in an ambulance. I don't bother to render first aid. If he dies, it's just one more ghost to join the others. He continues to shout obscenities at me until I threaten to cut his tongue out, twirling the knife between my fingers.

Eddie arrives first. "Hey, Steph. I was driving through the neighborhood when I heard the call on the radio. Why did you shoot the skip this time?" he says, jogging over with a first aid kit from his squad car to address Butler's wounds.

I shrug. "Butler fired at me first. I asked nicely," I say with a hint of sarcasm. Eddie sighs.

"I'm worried about you, Steph. You've got a new nickname at the station. The guys are calling you Rambette for your guns blazing style, but this isn't you," he says, packing the shoulder wound. He moves to inspect the pelvic injury. "Shit, Steph! I think you shot his dick off!" he exclaims, quickly applying pressure.

I suppress a smirk and walk to the front of the house to wait for the cavalry. The ambulance arrives first, and I jerk my thumb in the direction of the alley. Morelli pulls up next.

"I knew it," he says, shaking his head in disappointment as he walks towards me. "You're always at the center of mayhem and paperwork. What happened this time?" he questions, acting put out.

"Jimmy Butler, FTA. Masturbating in front of a school. Knocked on the door, he left the residence via the backdoor. I ran through the alley with my gun drawn, announced myself, and ordered him to freeze. He fired at me and hit the adjacent building. I returned fire and called 911," I report coldly.

"Show me," he says, closing his notebook, and I lead him through the alley. "You know, Cupcake, you used to be cute. This butch thing you've got going on, well, it's not doing you any favors in the boyfriend or reputation department," he says condescendingly.

I ignore him and point out the bullet hole from Butler's gun. I walk to where I was standing and show him Butler's position. I explain how I used a motion sensor to alert me to his departure, which is why I was able to intercept him so quickly. An additional squad car arrives during my explanation, and they begin securing the scene. The paramedics transfer Butler to a gurney and quickly wheel him to the ambulance. I hear the sirens indicating their rapid departure, and I lean against the brick wall as I wait for my body receipt.

Morelli consults with the other TPD members at the scene before sauntering over to me. "You know, Cupcake, you keep going the way you are, you're going to end up in jail or dead. For your sake and the sake of all the eligible bachelors of Trenton, I hope you clean up your act," he says, returning the capture paperwork and receipt to me.

I take the paperwork and leave without a backward glance.

Nothing I do, no matter what the intent, sets me on a path of moral rightness. Everything I do is wrong and found wanting. I can brush off Morelli's words, but Eddie's sting. Even he finds me morally deficient. I do a quick safety sweep of my car and drive away.

Trip and Mooner are in the middle of a Star Trek marathon when I knock on the door of the single-wide trailer. "Hey Dudette," Mooner says, without taking his eyes from the screen. "Got time to chill?"

"Busy day," I reply. "Trip Young?" I confirm.

"Yeah," he replies before taking a bite of flaming hot Cheetos.

"Let's go reschedule your court date. I need to put the cuffs on you as a formality," I say, indicating he should stand. I cuff and shackle every FTA in my vehicle now, without exception.

"You sure it can't wait until the end of the episode," he whines. I shake my head no.

Trip looks resigned, wipes his hands on his jeans, and stands, holding his wrists out to me. I give Mooner a nod of thanks and escort Trip to the station. He falls asleep halfway.

The junior officer staffing the intake desk gives me a double-take and looks apprehensive when I escort the half-conscious stoner into the station. I shut down the betting against me three months ago.

I brought in Earl Ratkowski, a mean drunk with a history of DUIs. It was well known through the rumor mill that he would beat his kids as a form of tough discipline, but no charges were ever filed. I found him at his local watering hole, and the takedown was difficult. He was belligerent and got in a good blow to my shoulder before pulling a knife and slicing my forearm. I used a self-defense move Hector taught me to twist his hand while digging my fingers into a pressure point, and he dropped the blade. I quickly pressed the prongs of my stun gun into him, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. I slapped on the handcuffs, and the bouncer helped me load him into the back of the CR-V. I shacked him to the floor, and he started to come to about a mile from the station.

"I know you," he mumbled, drool spilling from the corners of his lips. "You're the broad that killed Eric Farro," he says with the voice of a pack-a-day-for-twenty-years habit. "Word on the street is that you ain't no lady. I've got a big prick. Maybe we can make a deal. My standards aren't too high, so I'd be willing to fuck you, and you can set me free. What do you say?" he managed, laughing in-between moist, raspy coughs. I dragged him into the station, my shoulder and arm aching, while he made obscene jokes at my expense the entire way.

"Pay up, Jimmy," Big Dog boomed. "I told you she'd be in tonight with blood all over her. We were due for a Vampire Steph." Jimmy pulled a fifty out of his wallet, and I snapped.

I lunged across the counter and forcibly removed the bill from Jimmy's hand. "There will be no betting on anything to do with Stephanie Plum anymore," I threatened. "Spread the word. The next time I hear about someone profiting at my expense, it's more than your money I'll be taking. I will do everything I can to make sure that person's life, both professionally and personally, is a living hell. Give me my capture receipt. Now." I'm not a popular person at the station anymore, but people do work quickly to get me on my way.

I leave, head over to the bank, and park to watch for Edith Hayes. If this capture goes as smoothly as I hope, I'll have time for the gun range and a round of training with Hector before taking on Sanchez. I lean back in my seat and enter my zone. The more reclusive I've become the past few months, the easier I find surveillance to be.

I don't even twitch when Tank marches up the driver's side door and knocks on the window. "Let's talk, Little Girl," he booms.

I'm immediately ramped up. I lower the window a centimeter. "Do not call me Little Girl," I reply angrily, my eyes narrowing.

Tank looks taken aback, and his shoulders drop. "I heard someone shot you this morning. Are you okay?" he finally says. I'm surprised at the turn in the conversation, but I don't let it show.

"Fine," I retort.

I'm about to close the window when Tank says, "We miss you, Steph. Will you come by Haywood sometime?"

I give him a long stare. "No," I say. There's no way I will enter that building. There's a 50/50 chance I would end up in a holding cell, and a one hundred percent chance everything I own would end up with a tracking device on it.

Tank looks resigned. "Ranger made his last checkpoint. Looks like he'll be home in three to four months," he reports in a softer tone. I don't reply but keep my eyes on the door of the bank as Edith begins walking to her car while digging through her handbag distractedly.

"Move," I command, pushing the car door open. Thankfully, Tank steps aside without any trouble. I jog over and block Edith's path.

"Bond enforcement. You missed your court date," I state as Edith shrieks in surprise. I see her reach for a bottle of pepper spray in the bottom of her purse, and I knock it from her hand as she raises the bottle to gas me. "I'm here to help you reschedule," I continue, quickly cuffing her. Tank opens the backdoor for me, and I attach the floor chains to her cuffs before picking up the pepper spray and handbag that scattered in the parking lot during the citizen's arrest.

I lock myself in the vehicle before rolling down the window a crack. "Did you plant any trackers I'll need to return?" I ask frostily. Tank suppresses a scowl before he walks away.

I take my three receipts and bring them over to the bonds office. Vinnie pokes his head out of his office as I walk in. "You gotta stop shooting the FTA's, Stephanie," he whines. "It's giving us a bad reputation."

I give Vinnie a cold look, and he scurries back into his office and bolts the door shut. "Damn, White Girl. You could give Ranger a run for his money with a look like that," Lula pipes up.

"Well, if Vinnie fires you, I'm sure my Uncle Vito would be happy to take you on. The Mob tends to be less discriminatory," Connie says, handing me a check. I walk out without saying a word.

I drive to an abandoned lot and pull over to give my car a thorough inspection, inside and out. I don't trust Tank as far as I can throw him. I don't find anything, but I call Hector and ask him to meet me with the electronic sweep. He joins me fifteen minutes later.

"That was quite the show this morning, Angelita," he grins. "It's my new favorite video clip. You had everyone scurrying like ants." I almost smile in reply.

Hector begins his sweep, starting with my body. "Excellent shooting this morning. I hear that pendejo will never wank off again," he says, knowing I won't reply. "I'm glad you weren't hurt." I purse my lips at his last sentiment and take a step away as he begins sweeping my vehicle.

"What are you doing tonight, Estephania?" Hector asks, and I turn back towards him.

"609 Club. Oscar Sanchez is FTA," I reply, pointing to the file in the front seat. Hector finishes his sweep and reads it before walking over to me.

"This file was meant for Rangeman. What are you doing with it?" he asks, his eyes boring into me.

"I can handle it," I state, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Do you want me to come with?" Hector asks.

I shake my head no.

"Remember your promise, Angelita," Hector says after a long pause. "I'll meet you at the range."

I drive to a gun range at the end of a strip mall in Hamilton Township. There's a mixed martial arts gym at the opposite end, and Hector has an arrangement with the owner to make individual use of the studio. Hector and I spend the next hour and a half shooting and practicing self-defense and hand-to-hand combat moves on each other. I consistently lost when we started four months ago, but I've steadily become an equal partner after four times or more per week practice sessions. I think it's one of the only things keeping me sane.

When I return to my apartment, I disarm the sensors with my phone before parking my car and entering my apartment, reactivating them as soon as I lock the spaces behind me. I do a quick sweep of my home with my gun drawn before hanging my jacket on a hook near the door, putting my key ring on the nail, and resting my weapons on the counter next to Rex. I pull the bottle of tequila out of the cupboard and pour myself a tumblerful. I sip it while making a peanut butter and olive sandwich and feeding Rex.

After polishing off the sandwich, I drain the glass with a grimace and turn on the shower. I throw my clothes into the hamper and step into the small box. Angrily, I beat my fist against the tile wall before letting out a yell of rage. I tamp down my emotions throughout the day, but they explode in the quiet safety of my apartment.

When I saw the files, I thought today is a chance for me to do something right. I can put a man who is a threat to children behind bars, and surely that is a positive point for me in the grand cosmic balance of things. Now, I don't even know if he is alive and worse, I'm don't care. I shot him, and each bullet went exactly where I intended it.

My ears begin ringing as my distress increases. Since Farro, the noise is a daily reminder of the grotesque brutality that occurred between us. It drowns out the outside world, and all I hear are his final words to me. Murderer. Killer. All because I wouldn't spread my legs. Live with that.

I wash and shave quickly, wanting to escape the small stall of hellish recollection. I step out and towel dry my hair, numbing myself again with each action I take to go out tonight and capture Oscar Sanchez, my next chance at beginning to earn redemption.

I put on a black thong with a black leather miniskirt and stilettoed thigh-high boots. I secure my knife in the custom notch in the lining of the boots after pulling up the zipper. I pull a strappy crisscross latex halter off a hanger and shimmy the side zipper up after adjusting my boobs for maximum cleavage in the cups.

I exchange my nose stud for a silver ring, apply silvery grey shadow with heavy black liner and mascara, and line and paint my lips dark red. My leather jacket also has custom holsters for my guns, and I select my revolver and small Sig Sauer and conceal them in the folds. I place my cuffs in one pocket and taser in the other. My ID, cash, lipstick, and condoms are in the front zippered pockets.

At 11 pm I drive and park my vehicle outside the 609 Club, arming the alarm before stepping inside. I glance around the establishment and make eye contact with the various patrons as I slowly walk to the bar. I don't have to wait for the bartender to take my drink order, and he quickly places a double-shot of tequila, on the rocks with a twist of lime, on the sticky wood in front of me. I'm about to pay when the man sitting next to me tells the barkeep to put it on his tab.

He's Hispanic with the body of a gym rat and close-cut hair. He's attractive in a street-hardened way. "Hola, Senorita," he says, attempting to ooze charm. "I'm Caesar, and you are…" he says, waiting for my answer.

"Available," I answer evenly, and he laughs, slapping his hands on his thighs. He picks up his beer and clinks the neck against my raised glass.

"I'm new in town, but I heard this is a place I can go if I'm interested in more than just finding a good time," I state, trailing my hand up the inside of his leg.

Caesar regards me more seriously, "Yeah, baby, I can help you with that," he says before leaning forward. "But first you need to help me with this," and he puts my hand over his hard dick.

"Mmmm…" I purr. "This is my lucky night." I give him a light squeeze before leaning back and draining my glass. "Bottom's up," I tease with a slight smirk.

Caesar drains the rest of his beer in one gulp and takes my hand to lead us to the rear of the bar. I stop in front of the restroom and pull him inside after me and lock the door. I push him against the wall and begin undoing his jeans. "I don't want to wait," I breathe into his ear while extracting his dick. In reality, this is a calculated move. I never go to an unknown vehicle or residence, and I'm sure as hell not leading people to mine. I reach into my pocket for the flavored condom, rip open the packaging, and use my mouth to guide it over his throbbing member. He tightly clutches the top of my hair as I do, groaning.

After a moment, I stand again and reach under my skirt to pull my thong down to my knees. "I only ask one thing from you," I say, taking a step closer. "Make it rough."

Caesar grins with a dark glint in his eyes. "You'll never forget Caesar when we're finished," he says in a deeply accented voice, grabbing my arm and twisting me around so that my torso is pressed into the sink. I moan in anticipation, and Caesar chuckles as he yanks my skirt up and lands a palm heavily on my ass. I jerk against the sudden pain but spread my legs wider. My move encourages him to hit me repeatedly on each side, each impact harder than the last before suddenly slamming into me.

I feel dirty, cheap, debased, and it's everything I deserve. These moments are where I face my darkest instincts, desires, and self-loathing head on, and it's the only time I feel alive. I don't always orgasm, but after today, I find myself building towards it quickly. When another sharp blow from Caesar's hand pushes me into the mirror, I explode in a collision of pure hatred and pleasure.

I feel him grab my ass roughly and hold me in place as he reaches his completion. He pulls out shortly after, and I quickly stand, clean myself up, and adjust my clothing.

"I'm here most nights. You come to find me whenever you're available, baby. Now let's find my friend Oscar. He's got whatever you're looking for," Caesar replies with a half-smile, and I follow him to the far corner of the bar.

Oscar is half-hidden in the shadows of the booth. He's surrounded by two women with less clothing on than me and four guys roughly the size of Caesar. The only way I'll be able to apprehend him is if I can draw him away. As we approach, Oscar says something into the ear of the woman next to him, and she scoots out of the booth. I slide in next to him so that our thighs are touching, and Caesar pulls a chair up at the end.

Oscar raises a hand, and a server takes our drink order. The two men begin a rapid exchange in Spanish, but despite my recent efforts at better learning the language, it's too fast and accented for me to make out anything meaningful. After the waitress places another tequila in front of me, Oscar puts a hand on the inside of my thigh and begins slowly moving it up towards my pussy. "I hear you're looking to make a purchase," he says in a low voice. His fingers roughly trace my slit on the outside of my panties. "My friend made you wet, but I can tell you're a woman who wants more," he continues in a voice low enough that only I can hear. "The first order is always free, but I would be willing to extend the offer if we can make an arrangement," he suggests, sliding a finger into my hole.

I suppress a gasp at his brazenness and take a long sip of my drink before spreading my legs a little wider. He adds a second digit, and I give him an appraising look. "I think we can work something out," I reply before leaning in a little closer. "My car is outside. Can we take this party somewhere else?"

"Patience," he replies in the same low tone, adding a third finger.

"Yes, sir," I whisper into his ear as I wiggle slightly against him, and he takes my hand and rests it against his dick. I slip my hand inside the zipper of his loose-fitting trousers and immediately begin to jerk him off as requested.

I can tell he's near when he suddenly removes his hand from my dripping center and jerks mine out of his pants. He zips up and wipes his hand dry as a new person sits in the booth. "Lester," he says with a nod and my blank face slams into place as I meet eyes with the equally impassive man across from me.

"We have a deal," Lester says to Oscar, never taking his stare away off me. "Who's this beautiful woman sitting next to you? Does she have a price?" he says with a crook of his eyebrow.

Oscar laughs. "Yes, I will honor our agreement," he says, taking a sip of an amber liquid. "This one," he continues, nodding his head towards me. "Not mine, but she's available. Though, I don't think you can give her what she needs," and he laughs again. Oscar pushes against me, and I slide out from the booth and stand as Oscar follows. Lester continues to stare at me, before standing and clasping Oscar on the shoulder.

Lester leans into Oscar, says something under his breath in Spanish, and begins to lead him out of the bar. I'm furious. Rangeman poached my FTA. I start to follow at a distance, trying not to draw any unnecessary attention. I make it through the door and stop outside, pulling a cigarette and lighter out of my pocket as I do so. I light the smoke and let it rest between my fingers as I get my bearings and see where Lester may have lead Oscar. I don't smoke, but I've learned having a pack available is a useful distraction or way to get people to talk to me. There's a black SUV parked at the end of the block, and I begin to walk in that direction.

The next moment, I'm being dragged into the narrow space between the close-set buildings and am pressed roughly against the brick wall with a hand over my mouth. I force myself to go limp in the hopes it lulls my attacker into a false sense of security. The moment he loosens his grip, I'll be able to fight myself free and gain access to my weapons.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Beautiful?" Lester hisses, his face angry. "Are you running a solo distraction? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? I know what you were doing in the bathroom and in that booth! What's going on with you?"

"Looks like I can add poaching thief and hypocrite to my list of character traits for you," I retort, my anger rising with every second. "That was my FTA, and I don't owe you any explanation. Now let me go," I say, pushing against his arms.

Sadness replaces the anger on Lester's face, and he rests his forehead against mine. "What happened, Stephanie?" he whispers. "I hate seeing you this way."

"Get used to it," I say sharply and take advantage of his relaxed posture to escape. I push my leg against his kneecap and use the brief second it causes Lester to be off-balance to duck under his arm and point my gun at him. I keep it level as I sidestep out of the alley, checking my six as I go. Lester remains in place with his hands visible. I know he has more fight than that, but I'm grateful that he isn't making it any more difficult for me to leave. When I reach the sidewalk, I stride quickly to my car, stopping short when Hector steps out of the shadows.

"Give me the keys," he says, holding out his hand. The fight goes out of me, and I fob the car open and pass him the ring when we settle into the seats.

He drives silently for about twenty minutes before pulling over to park at the corner of an intersection with a gas station, several bars, a music lounge, and other similar businesses.

Hector reaches across the console and gives my hand a quick squeeze. "Don't forget that you are good, Angelita. The pain does not define who you are," he says before getting out of the car. I step onto the sidewalk and follow him into a tattoo parlor as the vehicle locks behind me.

A/N: I couldn't wait until Monday morning to update. I look forward to reading your reactions to the chapters too much! After this, we begin mixing up the POVs. I'd love you read your thoughts on this new Steph and where you think the story is going as our heroine becomes a Warrior. For something much lighter than this, I posted chapter 3 of To be Proud Friday.

Misty23y is simply the best. Please check out her crossover The Night That Changed Everything. So freaking good. If you want to have your heart ripped into a thousand pieces and trampled on in all of the best ways with misty23y's exquisitely beautiful and emotionally intense writing, check out I'll Never Love Again. Thank you for everything, Babe!